Well, the south side. Apple-trees are there. Pleasant, of a balmy
morning, in the month of May, to sit and see that orchard, white-budded,
as for a bridal; and, in October, one green arsenal yard; such piles of
ruddy shot. Very fine, I grant; but, to the north is Charlemagne.

The west side, look. An upland pasture, alleying away into a maple wood
at top. Sweet, in opening spring, to trace upon the hill-side, otherwise
gray and bare--to trace, I say, the oldest paths by their streaks of
earliest green. Sweet, indeed, I can't deny; but, to the north is
Charlemagne.

So Charlemagne, he carried it. It was not long after 1848; and, somehow,
about that time, all round the world, these kings, they had the casting
vote, and voted for themselves.

No sooner was ground broken, than all the neighborhood, neighbor Dives,
in particular, broke, too--into a laugh. Piazza to the north! Winter
piazza! Wants, of winter midnights, to watch the Aurora Borealis, I
suppose; hope he's laid in good store of Polar muffs and mittens.

That was in the lion month of March. Not forgotten are the blue noses of
the carpenters, and how they scouted at the greenness of the cit, who
would build his sole piazza to the north. But March don't last forever;
patience, and August comes. And then, in the cool elysium of my northern
bower, I, Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, cast down the hill a pitying
glance on poor old Dives, tormented in the purgatory of his piazza to
the south.

But, even in December, this northern piazza does not repel--nipping cold